


Fire in the throat.

by drinkginandkerosene



Category: Bambi - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Asylum, Alternate Universe - Human, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:18:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkginandkerosene/pseuds/drinkginandkerosene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bambi still can't speak in Group Therapy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire in the throat.

Group therapy only really worked if you were good with people. It was pretty safe to say, Bambi was not good with people. One, he could handle. He could laugh at all the right parts, maybe even hold eye contact for a moment or two. But more than that? Oh no no no. His words froze up in his throat, he became endlessly fascinated with the floor and awkward laughter became his go-to action. The nurses found this adorable. He found it annoying as hell. Especially since because he couldn’t articulate very well, people treated him like he was a kid, or stupid. He hadn’t been a kid, well… Ever. After his mom died, and his dad fucked off, he lived with his friends, and there wasn’t a huge amount of time for fun anymore. And hell, even his friends had left eventually, paired up. He was left alone. 

As usual then.

A nurse walked past and ruffled his hair affectionately. He pulled a face, drawing a laugh from her and a small grin from him until-

“Bambi. Something you’d like to share with the group?”

“N-No sir.” What an unlovable sod. He knew he wouldn’t speak. He never spoke in therapy. Like ever. Why would he? So he could remind everyone how very fucked up he was? So he could tell everyone about seeing blood pouring from his mom and how his dad walked away like he didn’t give a damn? Explain to him how that was meant to help. Meant to heal. Because talking, in his book, only lead to complications.

Like girls. 

It wasn’t that he wasn’t interested, no no. In fact, he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about girls. Well, the prettier ones in the asylum anyway. But honestly? The prospect of making a fool of himself was too great. His knees shook at the mere thought. And hey, it wasn’t like he slept. He had a lot of free time to take care of… That.

The Doctor cocked an unsurprised eyebrow and turned back to his clipboard. Bambi sensed this wasn’t quite over, and sighed, turning his eyes to the ceiling, and to God. He wasn’t in apparently, because the Doctor kept talking.

“Your nightmares. Ready to talk yet?”

A shot, ringing out, it was so loud, so loud it made his ears burn, and he’s running, running though it feels like he can barely walk, though the snow is slowing him, and soon he’s lost, and it’s cold, and he’s screaming for his mother, and only a cold, dark man shows. It’s dad. Now he’s here. When it’s too late. When everything is too late. He leads him to his home, but is it really? Nothing feels real. Bambi curls up in his bed, and he feels like he sleeps ‘til spring, and that’s the last time he ever slept properly, without hearing that noise, without seeing the scarlet pour from her body. Just blissful blackness, as soft as death. He wants to die, but spring is not that kind. Life happens, whether you want it to or not.

“N-Nothin’ to t-tell, sir.” He tries a slight smile, but the shrink clearly isn’t buying it, but he’s got a life, and he’s got other patients too, probably who are all on the brink of killing people, so he can’t really be blamed for just moving on, tutting.

Not without a parting shot though. He makes Bambi go to bed early. He can’t last long. Not with the shadows like bruises underneath his wide eyes. At first, locked into his room, he simply paces, burning energy. Then he jumps. Tries to read, but his concentration won’t hold, not with the bed looking at him. Writing doesn’t work much better either. It’s not long before he reluctantly strips to his underwear, and climbs in.

And it’s not long before he wakes, screaming, so hard his lungs feel on the verge of collapse, before his throat feels raw, and nurses have rushed in, pulling his arm straight for sedation, the chemical sleep the only type he manages. He buried his face in the pillow, breathing heavily, his body still shaking, and he puts a hand to his chest as if to check for a wound. As he fades into a blackness of his own, he hopes, prays he’d join his mother in hers.


End file.
